“Please take a moment to locate the nearest exit, keeping in mind it may be behind you…White lights lead to red lights, which indicate exits.”
— Airline safety guidelines

For the first time in eight years I will not spend Monday in the emergency room. No, I’m not accident prone, it’s that I’ve been working in a busy ER, first as an EMT, then as a social worker since the fall of 2002 and a long Monday has always been my one of my shifts.

Becoming an EMT was something I’d always wanted to do, so when both kids went to college I became certified. It took nine months and was pretty grueling. I was old enough to be the mother of most of my classmates and while they gloried in learning about what to do in the most unimaginable and possibly horrible circumstances, I worried about how I would handle things, once the practice ended and the people not breathing or the blood on the scene was real.

It turned out I never quite got over those worries and the fear that someone would need my help and I would freeze and not be able to give it haunted my two years as an EMT. While adrenaline made the people I worked with come alive and work faster and more efficiently in all those “Codes” (heart attacks), “Code 3 Calls” (running lights and sirens) and MVC’s (road accidents), I prayed for a quiet day, each morning, on the way to work.

Having no sense of direction didn’t help. The joke in our family is, “if Mom says go right, go left,” and that’s generally a successful way to navigate. So, the stress of writing down how we got to a scene, so I could reverse it in my mind and find my way back to the hospital was intense — especially when the situation was serious and I knew my paramedic partner would be too busy saving lives in the back of the truck to scream directions at me.

I like to think I would’ve been a better EMT if the ambulances I worked on had GPS, the way they do now. Maybe with the directions taken care of I could’ve been less fearful on the scene?

Anyway, in spite of the best efforts of my kind and knowledgeable coworkers, I wasn’t a very good EMT, so when an ER social worker position came open, I jumped at the chance to wear civilian clothes again and know that no lives depended on me.

The emergency room is a strange place – always open, always bright, always the same temperature, often completely out of tune with what’s going on outside. There are no weekends or holidays. It is a world focused on 24/7 availability, 365 days a year – the doors are always open, no exceptions. Of course, ER workers take time off, but it comes with the responsibility of making sure your shift is covered, so that the big ER machine won’t even notice one of its cogs is gone.

The emergency room is a place of portals – odd portals that most people experience only rarely in their lives. People die there and are born there and lose total touch with reality there. To listen to some of the mental patients, you’d swear there were demons haunting those halls… The emergency room is a place of intense emotion — people saying “goodbye,” people making difficult decisions about “further measures to be taken,” people hearing horrible news about illness, accidents and death. It is also a place of great hope, great light and amazing inspiration. While some people sink to their deepest depths within those walls, others rise to whatever challenge they’re facing with such courage, strength, grace and faith that it brings a tear to even the crustiest old ER worker’s eye.

It’s strange to go to a place where things that literally change people’s lives forever happen, and talk with your coworkers about what’s in your lunch, how your kid did at little league, or what was on Facebook last night… Challenging to remember that everyone in those ER rooms is having a really bad day. On a good shift, it’s easy to connect with that; on a bad shift all you want is for your replacement to arrive.

I don’t know how many people I’ve called to deliver bad news about an accident, illness or death. I don’t remember how many families I’ve been with while someone they love suffered or died. I can’t begin to count the number of sandwiches, warm blankets, cups of coffee, teddy bears, color books and stickers I’ve handed out. There’s been an awful lot of them - all memorable in their own way, yet forgettable, too, as sometimes that’s how you keep showing up at such an intense place day after day.

I’ll miss the ER, even though I’ll still be covering shifts when coworkers need time off. I’ll miss the stories and the intensity of the work. It’ll be a challenge to remain as humble and thankful as that place has kept me, but the white lights have lead to red lights and it’s time to see what comes next.

Lorin Sinn-Clark is a writer for the Barrow Journal. You can reach her at lorin@barrowjournal.com.

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